


Red, White, Gold, Blue

by StainedGlassDreams



Category: Captain America (Movies), Post-Avengers: Endgame - Fandom, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), bros, endgame spoilers, mcu - Freeform, the falcon - Freeform, winter soldier - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-02-28 05:33:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18750028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StainedGlassDreams/pseuds/StainedGlassDreams





	1. Mourning

*Somewhere in Brooklyn* 

"...passing of Steve Rogers. Mourners have put up a vigil, near the First Avengers hometown neighborhood, where the streets are flooded with red, white, blue and the faces of those grateful for his sacrifices."   
A man, crying as he carries a small child wearing a Captain America cowl. "I lost my boy in the Decimation. I lost my wife. I lost....everything. *crying* If it wasn't for Steve Rogers, I....I don't think I'd even be here."   
An older man in glasses with an immovable grin. "I served alongside that man in the war! Saved me life, gave me a bit of art, too!" He holds up one of Steve's sketches. I gave him one of mine, but he's the artist, I'm just a fan."   
The camera cuts back to the reporter, surrounded by a gentle crowd holding candles. "The vigil for Steve Rogers continues tonight, with his public service being held Tuesday night. Bob?"   
"Thank You Jean. In lieu of flowers, the Avengers and the Stark Foundation, now headed by Pepper Potts-Stark, are asking for mourners to give donations to food banks and the Keep On Foundation, a non-profit charity for those affected by the Decimation."   
He turns to another camera, but he doesn't really hear anything past that. A haze of noise and orange color from the dimly lit, small bar. He's seated at the far end, a blue low worn baseball cap and black leather jacket with his third...no, fourth glass of whiskey.   
Everyone's too busy with the television set above the bar, that they don't notice him. And honestly, he doesn't want anything else other than that right now. 

"I used to hate heroes." The bartender says, looking up. "Thought they always leaving messes for us folk to pick up. Never thought I'd actually miss the sunuvabitch."   
"He's a soldier, served right to the end."   
"He's a coward, is what he is." A heavier voice cuts through, a large man with an overtly tight black t-shirt. "He and Iron Man and all them assholes."   
The man at the end is grasping his glass a little tighter.   
"Frank, you can't talk bad about the dead."   
"I can talk about anyone anytime I want! This is a free country, ain't it? Ain't that what Steve Rogers always said with his flashy American shield?!" He spits on the ground. "Meanwhile, he says HYDRA corrupted the government-"   
"It did-" said someone else.   
"I ain't finished! I never says it wasn't corrupted! I was going to say, he says HYDRA was corrupted? Then why the hell, in Germany, is he protecting his commie friend?! Hell with both of them, and now the rat-fuck is back in hiding, too chicken to see-"   
"Don't." Sam Wilson's voice beside Bucky snaps him back a little too quickly, noticing only now that the glass he held is empty; the whiskey on the bar from the cracks he made from grasping too tight. "They ain't worth it."   
"I wasn't going to do anything."   
"Yeah, and I'm a normal dude."   
The man goes on and the TV volume is overpowered, as all of the bar is now arguing with the man in the tight black shirt. The bartender looks over to where Bucky was sat at the end of the bar; crumpled $50 bill and a broken cup. "The hell?"   
\-----   
Sam and Bucky are walking down dimly lit Brooklyn streets, hands in pockets as their footfalls only audible from the puddles they pass over.   
"How'd you find me?"   
"A bird whistled in my ear."   
"Cheater. You need a drone to find an idiot. That's sad, Sam."   
"Hey, last time I remember, you disappeared off the grid for two years. Forgive me if I'm being a little cautious. Besides, I wouldn't have needed Redwing."   
"Oh, yeah?" They turn a corner.   
"All us soldiers, we always somehow come back home."   
"You have a home, you know." Bucky says quietly.   
"And so do you." They stop, and Bucky realizes Sam's truck, is parked right behind his motorcycle.   
He turns to Sam. "Seriously?"   
"Yeah, seriously."   
He sighs. "You're not gonna leave me alone tonight, are you?"   
"No. But because you shouldn't be alone tonight, Bucky."   
"....Thank You."   
"You don't have to be alone. No one does."  
Bucky smiles. Not just because of it, but because he sees so much of Steve in him. And he couldn't be happier.  
"Even a little asshole like you." Sam says, getting into the car.  
He's a little shit too. And he smiles, for the first time tonight.  
\-------


	2. Memoriam

"Careful."   
They're sweating. Eyes locked, this is it. Their hands are still, faces blank.   
One squints just barely in intimidation.   
Sam throws down his cards. "Fold."   
Bucky turns his hand, metal and gold glinting in the light of Sam's living room. A simple pair. Sam's near flush is laid out against the small, messy stack of cards.   
"Shit....."   
"Never play cards with an ex-assassin." He takes the modest pot of $75 in odd change on the table. "Unbeatable poker faces."   
Sam opens up another beer. "Now see, that's cheating."   
"Wanna win your money back?"   
"Nah, keep it. I don't have the experience."   
Bucky leans back, sipping on a beer. "You have siblings?"   
"Two. Brother and a sister. We were all each other had after my parents died."   
"Sorry."   
"It's not your fault. After that, I blamed the world. Blamed everyone, myself too. Got tired of being a little asshole, so I joined the service. I told myself it was for my country, you know? But...I knew why. I wanted to help people. Save someone. Even if it was just one person. Keep a family together."   
"You're a good man."   
"Thanks."   
"No, I mean it. You remind me of him. This..." Bucky shakes his head, smiling. "..punk kid. Whole world stopping him, telling him he can't do something and he stands there, and tells them "I can."   
"How long did you guys know each other?"   
"Long enough that I know he used to pretend to sleep so he could sneak out to the roof with his telescope. Only kid in New York dumb enough to try and see stars with all that light."   
Sam chuckles. "That sounds like Steve."   
"One time, I was trying to spot for him. I turn around, and he has the telescope pointed at Cinthya Cromwell across the street. Mind you, she wasn't naked, not even close. She was just sitting by her window, brushing her hair. I called him out on it, he turned redder than a tomato." They both start laughing, before a small quiet then comes back over; lighter than before, but still a shroud, however transparent.   
"I miss him." Sam says.   
"I do too."   
They both decide to go to bed afterward, cleaning up the small mess they left, with Bucky taking the couch after Sam realized there was no arguing it at that point.


	3. Recovery

Eyes set ahead. He's focusing all his energy on it, getting the corner right; his wrist turns a slight degree, bearing the weight and making sure this time, he's got it.   
He breathes in and lets out the exhale in a burst of power with the trajectory of the shield; it hits the corner of the gym pillar but it does nothing more, whirling slightly to the degree he wanted before it falls back on the floor with that symbollic metallic pulse.   
Sam Wilson curses under his breath. He's been at this for an hour now and nothing. Maybe you should take that break you said you were gonna take 10 minutes ago, he thinks to himself.   
But wielding this now, alone, he feels the weight. Not the physical, but the mental one. 

Ever since the press conference, his mind has been a whirl. All the questions Steve was so elequent in answering, he feels like a private back in training, straining out an answer to the sergeant from fresh lips.   
He feels the responsibility, to uphold what this thing meant. What Steve meant.   
He sighs. And how the fuck this thing violated every code of physics he knows from piloting. 

As he's about to fruitlessly do it again, he suddenly hears Bucky and curses again at his sudden appearance. "Would it kill you to knock or something, man? Jesus."   
"You're doing it wrong."   
"Yeah, no shit."   
Bucky comes down the steps and into the day strewn gym. "No, you're putting too much power into the throw. You've got to disperse it, map out where you want it to go, and how hard." He's wearing a plain blue t shirt and pants. He walks to the right of the pillar. "Hit me."   
Sam cocks his eyebrow.   
"Target where you want the shield to go, and how far. Don't think about how hard it should land. Just where it's going to hit." He says calmly.   
Sam breathes in again, focusing. He reaches into his training; this time, he sees what Bucky meant. He sees small blinks of what it will hit, not what he wants it to hit, and his wrist moves without his telling. His exhale is calculated as it hits the punching bag, down to the floor, against the pillar, hitting the opposite wall and finally the old man catching it with his Wakandan made arm. "Not bad." He says, smiling softly as he throws it back to Sam with ease.   
"Thanks."   
"Anytime." He sees now, as Bucky leans against the shadow of the pillar, arms crossed, his eyebags. He hasn't slept again.   
And, from years of experience, he knows what the scent of a sleepless night and regretful sweat smells like, and walking in here, when there's only two people who know of this place, what that more than obviously means.   
"Wanna teach me some more moves, old man?" Sam asks.   
"Why not?"   
/////  
Goddamn, he's fast.   
Sam is too, he isn't in denial of that but the way Bucky moves is seamless. He doesn't rely solely on his left arm-   
(He tries to sweep kick Sam but he steps out of the way, attempting to kick his shoulder)   
-equally dividing his force. He knows he's quicker, remembering him in DC; in Berlin so Sam playfully pushes. "C'mon, don't hold back on me!"   
Sees Bucky smirk as he ducks the kick, and flips Sam over. Shit.   
Bucky stands over him. "What was that about holding back?" He says, holding his hand out.   
"I hate you." Sam mutters, accepting it as he stands up. 

There isn't anything more therapeutic than working a sweat out. He isn't sure if it's a service thing, but there's something about getting lost in, well, the dance of it. Your mind shuts off for a second as you're focusing on just your opponent, and he remembers taking group therapy members to gym spars often.   
And he sees the kid a little less heavy, the smile a little less hidden.   
Throws him a towel as he drinks some water. "Feel better?"   
"Yeah. Thanks."   
"What does a 100 year old man eat?"   
"Oatmeal and prunes." Bucky side eyes him.   
"Got it." He starts to walk back up the stairs. "I'll run to the senior center."   
"Ass." Bucky smirks.


End file.
